


Ad Perpetuam Memoriam

by tristinai



Series: Actiones secundum fidei [5]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Coercion, Cullen's POV, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Implied Character Death, Lyrium Addiction, M/M, Not A Happy Ending, a lot of heartbreak, cullrian - Freeform, mentions of Adoribull
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-13
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-12-14 20:22:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11790762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tristinai/pseuds/tristinai
Summary: Cullen had a way of breaking beautiful things. He had only to look into the sad eyes of his estranged lover to see the damage his decisions have wrought.





	Ad Perpetuam Memoriam

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to everyone who has made it this far! Before continuing, please make sure you READ THE TAGS as this chapter is not in the least happy. It attempts to follow canon as closely as this verse will allow so I'm sure most of you know what's coming.

_9:44 Dragon_

_Skyhold_

 

Snow fell in a gentle blanket, the evening sky awash in a sea of stars and flakes, painting a peaceful scene befitting the end of a rather harsh winter. A pair of armored boots paused at the ramparts edge, gloved hands settling on the centuries old stone, as weary eyes peered out beyond the walls to the thick snow drifts surrounding their fort, the remnants of mountain storms now a serene picture after the destruction it had ravaged for months on the terrain.

 

A tongue darted out to soften chapped lips, capturing a stray flake. Like all things he touched, its demise was immediate, a cool sting that melted off the tip, dribbling onto his drying lips.

 

Cullen had a way of breaking beautiful things. He had only to look into the sad eyes of his estranged lover to see the damage his decisions have wrought.

 

With a shake of his head, he trudged back towards his office, snow crunching beneath his boots. It was nearly time to take his next dose of lyrium and already, his mouth felt parched from its absence.

 

“How you can stand to be out there in this Maker-forsaken weather is beyond me,” Dorian chastised, gentle smirk not quite reaching his eyes.

 

Cullen's smile was careful, though he made no effort to move out of the mage's reach as Dorian brushed off the flakes that coated the fur of his cloak. The gesture felt more procedural than affectionate, more out of habit than of concern for his well-being.

 

Inside the warmth of his office, Cullen was within the presence of a stranger and, if he stared long enough, he could sometimes convince himself this was the ghost of a man he once knew.

 

“You'll catch your death out there,” Dorian sighed.

 

Cullen merely shrugged, stepping away from the mage before his touch could linger. Not that it ever did. They both had their boundaries and neither was intent on crossing them.

 

“I've survived worse,” was all he said.

 

When he pulled out his lyrium kit, Dorian refused to look away. Perhaps it was some form of self-induced torture that made his gaze sharpen, committing to memory every moment of Cullen's fall from grace. But Dorian was always there, every evening, to watch the Commander drown in his own shame.

 

Cullen already knew the expression Dorian wore even as he closed his eyes, sighed in relief when the lyrium hit his tongue. He swallowed every drop, savoring the euphoria that erupted deep within his chest, a kind of satisfaction he received from nothing else.

 

Those lips that had once tasted like summer, as blazing hot as the high noon sun, branding every inch of his skin with the mage's claim, no longer stirred desire in him. In the storm gray depths of the Tevinter's eyes, Cullen found no solace, their tides a sorrowful calm that pulled him in, drowning him in their murky waters. The guilt that had been a constant throughout most of their relationship no longer festered in silence but burst whenever Dorian hid his judgment behind his mask and Cullen knew that if the lyrium didn't kill him, it would be the reminder of all they had lost.

 

Placing the empty vial on his desk, Cullen glanced up at Dorian.

 

The silence that reigned between them was deafening.

 

When finally Dorian spoke, it was with neutrality that was almost as tragic as the Commander's growing indifference.

 

“I leave for Tevinter in a week's time.”

 

All Cullen could do was nod.

 

* * *

 

Cullen didn't have to be told that Dorian was fucking the Iron Bull.

 

He just knew.

 

There had always been a fondness between them, beneath Dorian's affronted banter and Bull's salacious comments. It was nothing serious, if rumor could be believed, but it was consistent. A few heated glances exchanged across the dining hall, lingering touches whenever the mage got unabashedly drunk and Cullen hadn't the patience to engage in Dorian's flirting, led to the mage seeking a companion who would indulge his fancies. Cullen had made it clear he no longer desired Dorian, spurning all attempts at sexual contact, trading what could have been intimate moments to indulge the lingering effects of his increased lyrium dosages in the solitude of his office.

 

So if Dorian had to find relief elsewhere, Cullen hardly blamed him.

 

It didn't make it any easier when Dorian showed up to his office the night before his departure to Tevinter, unsurprisingly drunk.

 

“Commander!” Dorian slurred, breath reeking of alcohol. “You're looking rather _delicious_ this evening, if I am to be perfectly astute.”

 

“I—thank you?”

 

The Commander tried not to scrunch his nose distastefully at the overpowering stench of alcohol but was yelping out in surprise as Dorian squeezed his ass, eliciting a rather bemused smirk from the Tevinter. Cullen was half-tempted to seek out the Iron Bull and demand that he deal with this since he had long since lost the patience, or the interest, in putting up with Dorian's drinking.

 

“You're a bit...jubilant tonight.”

 

Words failed to convey how odd he found Dorian's behavior.

 

“On the contrary, Commander,” Dorian said, leaning in closer, liquor-laced breath a whisper against Cullen's lips, “I think the word you're looking for is _petulans_.”

 

The Tevene word, which would have once sounded like silk to Cullen's ears, made him tense. He almost wanted to ask what it meant but Dorian was more intent on showing him, pressing into the Fereldan, rock-hard cock digging into Cullen's thigh. A hand slipped to the back of the Commander's neck, pulling him into a heated kiss, tongue wasting no time in parting his lips to slide languidly against his own.

 

And Cullen felt...nothing.

 

He was about to try and push the mage off of him when the hint of a flavor, sweet and savory, stirred an ache inside of him.

 

 _Aqua Magus,_ he realized.

 

The lyrium-laced spirits made Cullen groan into the kiss. All at once, it was like a flame sparking to life, every inch of his skin a map that begged to be re-charted, blood rushing below his waist, surprised moan stifled against lips that had purposely laid their claim on him. His hands dropped to Dorian's hips, pulling the mage closer, grinding helplessly against the other man's, as much as the trousers that separated them would allow. That they hadn't done this in so long seemed almost more strange than the awkwardness that had pervaded any moment spent alone together.

 

But for as quickly as the euphoria had come, Cullen could taste alcohol heavy on the mage's tongue, had to put more effort into holding Dorian against him as they hungrily stole kisses from each other, for the man could barely stand on his own. It may have been the first time in a year since he felt anything close to desirel but he knew it was for all the wrong reasons.

 

“D-Dorian,” he shuddered, pulling his lips away to try and speak sense to the mage. A gasp tumbled off his tongue as Dorian suckled gently on his stubbly neck, teeth and tongue taking turns to tease the pale flesh. Somehow, even in his inebriated state, Dorian proved ever efficient in taking what he wanted, a hand slipping into Cullen's trousers to grip his erection tightly.

 

“M-Maker!”

 

A few flicks of the mage's wrist and Cullen was ready to give in, to let them both enjoy each other and deal with the consequences in the morning.

 

But if it took lyrium flavored alcohol for the mage to stir anything other than the ex-templar's apathy...

 

It took more willpower than Cullen thought he had to bite back a groan and grasp Dorian's wrist, using just enough force to let the mage know he wanted him to stop.

 

“I—I think you should get some rest,” Cullen said.

 

He thanked the Maker for giving him the strength to tug Dorian's hand out of his pants, as much as it pained him to do so.

 

“I don't want to rest,” Dorian slurred, throwing his arms around Cullen's neck and laughing as he stumbled into the Commander's chest. “I'd much rather be sucking off your fat co—”

 

“You're drunk.”

 

“And you're positively delectable, a fine specimen of a man. I am far more content to help you out of those _uncomfortable_ looking trousers.”

 

“Dorian...”

 

The mage pushed Cullen back against his desk, smirking as his hand traced over the very prominent tent in the Commander's breeches. “Relax, Commander. I think we've both earned a little mindless _fucking_.”

 

_Mindless fucking?_

 

Suddenly, Cullen felt as if he was going to be sick.

 

When Dorian tried to lean in once more to kiss him, Cullen tilted his face away, both hands coming up to steady the mage but also prevent him from leaning in further.

 

“I said _no_ , Dorian.”

 

The mage stilled, eyes flicking up to meet Cullen's steely expression. As his rejection settled in the air, thickening it with the odd tension that had lingered for months, Cullen was surprised to see a brief moment of hurt pass over Dorian's face, a crack in his facade. He wasn't sure what he expected: perhaps feigned belligerence and a moment to grumble about Cullen having returned to his stick-in-the-mud old ways.

 

But as Dorian forced an awkward laugh, stumbled out of Cullen's grasp, it made that hollow ache in Cullen's chest burn with new vigor.

 

“I suppose I have gotten a bit ahead of myself,” Dorian said, all but falling against a nearby by chair to keep from toppling over. “My final hurrah a scandalous tumble in the Commander's bed sheets? How foolish of me to think we could go back to what we were.”

 

It was one of those odd moments of clarity that could only be found at the bottom of a bottle, where the haze of alcohol's lure spilled truths off the tongue long denied by willful ignorance. It somehow hurt worse than the mage's usual glibness, made Cullen look away and swallow heavily.

 

“I think we both know this is how it should be.”

 

His fingers twitched at his side, old memory of the power he had impulsively unleashed on the mage, the force of the smite, filling him with that same disgust that made him push Dorian away in the first place.

 

Though turned away, Cullen could see the hand that swiped over Dorian's eyes, felt more than heard the audible crack in an unsteady voice.

 

“Perhaps I should have expected this. You've become quite adept at pushing people away.”

 

Cullen could never forgive himself for what he had done to Dorian, nor was he ready to let Dorian decide that absolution was his to give.

 

“Dorian, what I did—”

 

“Fuck your guilt!” Dorian snapped, turning back to glare at the Commander. It would have been more intimidating if the mage wasn't so inebriated. “I don't need your reliable judgment deciding how I should feel. Need I remind you that it was that same _judgment_ that made you think going back on lyrium was a good idea!”

 

It stung more for the honesty he voiced and less for the sharpness of its delivery. It was something Cullen couldn't deny, nor would he even try to.

 

“I've been here for you this entire time,” Dorian continued, taking Cullen's hand. “So perhaps you can stop acting as if we both don't want this and give me one last night before I leave for Maker knows how long.”

 

Cullen looked down to where their hands were joined, swallowed thickly at the dull ache for what once was. But for as much as he wished he could go back to what they had, he knew it was nostalgia that made him cling to the shards of what they had been, and not for anything that remained.

 

“But I don't want this,” Cullen said quietly.

 

Five words was all it took to break the mage.

 

He could see how it affected the Tevinter, the facade of confidence cracking like fine crystal. It took all of a moment to dismantle the lie they had built, whether it was to keep going for each other or for their own self-preservation.

 

But self-preservation had never been Dorian's strong suit. He played with fire, igniting hearts that were his to break or razing everything to the ground.

 

“Then what do you want?”

 

It hardly needed voicing, that which made Cullen's blood rush, had his tongue darting out to moisten dried lips, as if he could capture a stray drop of the substance he had consumed hours before.

 

“You know what it is I want,” Cullen whispered, too embarrassed by his own weakness to call it by its name.

 

Sauntering right up to the Commander, the curl of Dorian's lips stirred something inside of Cullen, his eyes following the teasing finger that traced down the front of his chest. He followed its path as that hand reached into the mage's robes to produce a small vial of lyrium. Cullen's eyes lit up.

 

“Maker, _yes._ ”

 

With the cork popped off, Dorian tossed back the liquid, embellishing a deep swallow with a lewd moan.

 

Heart thudding wildly in his chest, Cullen hardly waited until for the mage to finish off the rest of his potion before he was surging forward to capture those lips in a hungry, desperate kiss.

 

All at once, Cullen could taste the faint song that sang to him, offered him acceptance where his own Maker had forsaken him. Any protest that screamed in his head died with the intoxicating seduction of Dorian's chosen poison, a weapon he knew the Commander would not be able to refuse. As his own cock grew heavy with want, he gripped Dorian tightly, his hand to the back of the mage's neck, devouring those lips with new vigor, coveting as much of that lingering taste as he could.

 

He was a man dying in the desert. And if he had to give his body for the sustenance he so craved, he submitted willingly.

 

“Humor me, _Amatus_ , but I find myself wondering what it would be like to have the Commander of the Inquisition,” Dorian said, pupils blown, arousal pressing into Cullen's hip.

 

The endearment was said with a crack in the mage's voice and felt like an assault on the Commander's ears. He had forgotten what the Tevene word sounded like, having gone so long without being addressed in such a way. Now, it was a relic of what could have been, of a time neither could ever return to.

 

He knew what the mage was asking, hardly cared what price he paid for generous taste he had been given. The erection that strained too tightly in his trousers, a sensation he hadn't felt in so long, made the decision for him.

 

“I have no objection,” he answered, satisfied to see something other than the long-residing pain of loss shining in the mage's eyes.

 

It wasn't long before they made their way up the ladder, clothing tossed aside, bodies naked and pressed together on the surface of Cullen's bed. Every kiss on his skin was a desperate cry to make something stir in him that wasn't regret, the oiled fingers that made their invasive push inside of him ripping from his throat groans that had his body writhing, though his heart still thudded dully out of tune to what him and Dorian had once shared. When he felt Dorian press against his entrance, Cullen stilled, caught off guard by the expression on the Tevinter's face.

 

The mage's grief was in the tears that he blinked back, a hesitant smile that made him all that much more vulnerable.

 

“I've wanted this for so long, and yet...”

 

With a sigh, he pressed his forehead to the Commander's. Eyes slipping shut, Cullen breathed in with a shudder, hand coming to the back of Dorian's neck, holding him close even as the mage waited to breach him.

 

“I am yours for the remainder of the evening,” Cullen promised.

 

“Only the evening?”

 

The question caught him off guard. He opened his eyes to look at Dorian, whose lips were drawn in a firm line, gray eyes blown with hope so fragile, Cullen knew he could shatter it with a choice word, whether intended or not.

 

He sighed softly when he felt the mage's fingers caress his cheek, cradling the side of his face.

 

“For as long as you'll have me,” he finally answered, quietly.

 

He knew it was a lie.

 

It was a sensation he hadn't felt in years, that odd pressure that felt simultaneously uncomfortable but also satisfying. Dorian was careful, taking more time than Cullen had ever with him, waiting for the Commander's body to adjust to the foreign intrusion. The kind of groan the mage made, voice thick with arousal, was one Cullen hadn't heard him make before, the kind of sated noise one would elicit when tasting a nostalgic treat from one's childhood for the first time in years. The heaviness of being filled by Dorian was also new for Cullen, who held the mage close to him, shuddering beneath him.

 

When Dorian finally moved, Cullen moaned, legs wrapping around the mage's waist to bury him as deep as he could go each time his hips snapped against the Commander's. The Tevene words that filled the space between them were a mix of elated curses and tender expressions, words Cullen knew he didn't deserve. The mage was as vocal as ever in his appreciation for the tight heat that had him driving his hips against the Commander's, eyes soft with affection that made Cullen's eyes mist. It wasn't long before Cullen felt that familiar build, his balls tightening, body desperate to spill his seed.

 

“Amatus,” Dorian groaned, a single tear spilling off his thick lashes.

 

It splattered onto Cullen's cheek.

 

 _I loved you, once_.

 

The thought ripped a hoarse sob from Cullen's throat, as he buried his face in the crook of Dorian's neck.

 

It was the hand that snaked between them, a few tugs of Dorian's wrist, that finally undid him.

 

In a flash of white heat, he was crying out, cumming onto Dorian's hand, muscles tightening around the mage's cock even as he continued to thrust hard into the Commander. With a shaking gasp, he rolled his hips up weakly to spend himself completely, all but collapsing back against the bed as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over him.

 

Unable to hold on much longer, Dorian was crashing with him moments later, cumming hard with a loud curse. The feel of Dorian finishing inside of him had Cullen holding the mage close, gasping as the mage rutted a few more times to empty himself completely.

 

Long after their fucking had ended, as both lay staring up into the broken ceiling, the hint of contact the brushing of their bared shoulders, both too shamed to look at the abuse their vices had inflicted on each other, a single question lingered on Cullen's lips.

 

The effort it took to turn his head, to stare at the profile outlined by the pale light of the moon glowing through the cracks of dilapidated wood, made the Commander want to groan in exhaustion. But instead, he felt his chest tighten, burning with ache unable to find fulfillment. Cheeks still flushed from exertion shone with drying tears, smeared kohl making the mage look that much older, the by-product of Cullen's self-destruction.

 

“Why?”

 

He wanted to know why the mage had bothered when he had others to sate his sexual needs, others who would worship him without a price, force him to endure the shell of what had once been a man with a thirst for more than the poison he drank every evening.

 

With a tired exhale, Dorian turned to stare into Cullen's eyes, his having long since lost their luster. Perhaps it was out of dying habits that he reached up, hesitantly, to trace along the stubbly path of the Commander's jaw, his answer as broken as the heart that Cullen had shattered all those months before.

 

“I wanted you to look at me the way you used to, one last time.”

 

* * *

 

 

Dorian returned to Tevinter the next morning.

 

* * *

 

_9:45 Dragon_

_Val Royeaux_

 

The streets of the large, Orlesian city looked duller beneath the thick layer of snow, ornate buildings a dreary, towering skyline as grim and unforgiving as the winter to the abundance of beggars that lay curled up within the remote alleys, the stone offering only solace to those who had coin to spare.

 

With the Inquisition dissolved, the many who found themselves without employment had either been forced into unsavory work or, those too proud to sell their body as either a weapon or for sex, were left to fend for themselves in the streets of Thedas' cities.

 

Huddled beneath an over-sized, ratty, fur-lined cloak that barely protected his decaying figure from the harsh, crisp air, a shaggy-haired man with eyes that were once sharp as steel, stared down at the blade that had been handed to him a few days before by a dwarven women. When not distracted by the pangs of hunger that ripped through him, making his sunken chest quiver, he idly wondered what purpose such a thing could serve. He had half crawled to one of the nearest dilapidated houses rumored to trade lyrium to those able to provide something of use, scraping his legs and torn trousers through the frost and grime that lined the streets, but he had been summarily tossed out before any transaction could be made.

 

So now he lay on the streets, chest heaving tiredly, head tilted back as each breath he drew ripped into his diaphragm, drawing only a hoarse groan and pain that could not be silenced. As the flakes fell, their touch like knives upon his sharp cheeks, he was struck with a sudden memory, more of a sensation than any coherent thought. Gray eyes that crinkled with a gentle laugh, a mole. The heat of summer on lips that worshiped his skin, arms that pulled him into a welcoming embrace, the whisper of everything they had been in a single, foreign word.

 

_Amatus._

 

“Amatus,” Cullen found himself whispering, though he had no idea why.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This ending was written last night and, to be honest, it went in a completely different direction than the original. I was torn between posting something hopeful versus something that carried the tone of the verse and I had a very difficult time making the hopeful ending work in a way that I found satisfying. I went without a beta-reader for this series so I've had to rely on feedback and my own judgment to determine what was working and what wasn't. I tried to go for something anti-climatic because it's how Cullen passes away in-game: forgotten and alone on the streets of Val Royeaux, more of an afterthought in the post-game credits.


End file.
